“You look like you need a break,” Lance said.
Pale green eyes shifted in his direction. “Hmm?”
Lance stepped into the room, offering him a hand. “Come on, I have something for you.”
For a moment, Lance thought Jasper might pass, then he marked the page in his book and tossed it on the table beside the sleeping computer. By all rights he should have been writing, but Lance could tell the grip of depression had him good today. Jasper slipped his hand into Lance’s, leaving the blanket draped over the chair’s arm.
As was always the case when Jasper touched him, Lance experienced a heart-racing shock and a flutter in his stomach. No one else had ever elicited the same sensations. Entwining his fingers with Jasper’s, he led his fiancé back through the house. By the time they reached the door leading out onto the deck, Lance was ready to burst, excitement bubbling up in him. Jasper, on the other hand, walked silently at his side, clearly lost in thought.
Wanting him in the moment, Lance halted and faced Jasper. Without a word, he leaned in and placed a gentle, affectionate kiss on Jasper’s lips. He lingered for a moment before drawing back, giving Jasper’s hand a pleasant squeeze. He was delighted to see a glimmer of contentment in Jasper’s eyes. They stepped off the deck together.
“Where are we going?”
Lance toyed with how much to tell him, not wanting to ruin the surprise. “You’ve been a little down lately,” he started, “and I thought maybe a little spring air might help.” He wanted to say more. He had all these sentiments running through his mind, but he opted to wait until the surprise had been sprung.
Only a few heartbeats later, they rounded the corner in the garden, and his little setup came into sight. Lance had put together a picnic, the perfect way to celebrate the arrival of spring as well as getting his beloved free of the gloomy rut. He’d spread a white blanket over the grass and added an open umbrella in case the sun became a touch too much, though he thought that highly unlikely. He’d also scattered three big pillows about to make things more comfortable. And of course, he’d filled the wicker picnic basket with a delicious assortment of goodies, all of which he managed to get together without raising suspicions.
They stopped at the blanket’s edge. Jasper looked at him. “You did this…for me?”
“For us,” Lance replied.
After a moment of hesitation, Jasper asked, “But why?”
“Why not?” Lance shrugged, sinking down onto the blanket and gesturing for Jasper to do the same. Lance hooked a finger under Jasper’s chin, forcing his lover to look him in the eye. Oh, and how he so loved to get lost in them, their shade reminiscent of newly budded leaves. His heart fluttered and he was always amazed how he could still fall even more in love with Jasper. “I’ve noticed you’ve been caught up in a funk lately. Something is going on in that head of yours, and I know when you want to share, you will. Like always, I’ll listen and do my best to help.”
Jasper opened his mouth as though he meant to speak.
Lance held up a finger, wanting to say a bit more. “Now, I’m perfectly fine with sitting by and waiting you out. But, my love, it pains me so to see you suffering. I thought to myself perhaps I could find a way to help you get clear of the darkness, brighten your spirits. And what better answer than a picnic on such a wonderful spring day?”
“I don’t know what to say.” Jasper’s words came out barely more than a whisper.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Lance tasted green tea as he ran his tongue along Jasper’s mouth. A wave of heat rushed over him as Jasper reached up and grasped hold of his shirt, his fingers curling into the fabric. For a moment, the world around them seemed to slow, then fade away altogether. Lance wanted nothing more than to pull Jasper close, to feel the rhythmic beat of his lover’s heart, and to let his fingers wander over Jasper’s muscles, but the timing for such things was all wrong. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was pressure Jasper when the poor man was mentally lost at sea.
When they broke the kiss, Lance was delighted to spot a twinkle in Jasper’s eyes, the storm clouds that had been lingering there finally starting to break apart. Jasper gathered up the pillows, piled them at the base of the tree, then rested back against them, beckoning Lance to come join him. Lance settled at his side, slipping an arm around his shoulders and cuddling up close. He rested his head on Lance’s shoulder, slowly rubbing his hand up and down Lance’s thigh. Neither of them spoke for a while but sat enjoying each other’s company.
After a few minutes, Lance found himself aroused, the constant touch of his lover’s hand on his thigh more than enough to get the job done. He subtly shifted his position. “You know,” he said, “if you keep doing that, I might have to have my way with you.”
Jasper stopped moving his hand for a moment, then resumed his rubbing, bringing his hand a bit further north than previously, his knuckles brushing Lance’s growing erection. “Maybe—” A loud growl from his stomach cut him off.
They were quiet a moment, then started laughing. The sound made Lance’s heart swell. Oh, how he had missed it the whole week along with the light dancing in those pale green eyes and the smile curving those lush lips. The storm had died, the clouds breaking, Jasper finding the path out of the darkness. Lance couldn’t help himself. He cupped Jasper’s chin in his hands, kissing Jasper tenderly, lovingly, with the promise of something more.
“I love you, Jasper,” he said when they broke apart. “More and more every day.”
Instead of replying in kind, Jasper turned his focus to the picnic basket.
A touch uncertain, Lance waited for Jasper to say or do something. His mind was racing, going over every action and word, afraid he might have said or done the wrong thing. Then, much to his surprise, Jasper leaned forward and grasped the basket handle. In a flash, Jasper stood up and held his hand out to a somewhat confused Lance.
“I thought we were having a picnic,” Lance said, his eyebrows raised.
Jasper smiled coyly. “We are.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Jasper wiggled his fingers, clearly wanting Lance to take hold of his hand. “I say we have this picnic upstairs in our bedroom, where we can either have dessert first or right after. Or maybe in the middle even.”
“Dessert…” Lance said, finally taking hold of Jasper’s hand and getting to his feet. The impish look on Jasper’s face was enough to put the final piece of the puzzle in place. Lance’s heart fluttered, his stomach doing flip-flops. He knew that look, knew that Jasper had definitely managed to get free of depression’s hold. “Are you implying, my beloved Jasper, that we indulge in some…play time?”
Jasper popped open the lid of the basket, peeking inside. “Well, well, I think we might have to go with the ‘during’ option.” He pulled out a can of whipped cream, lightly shaking it side to side. “I mean, I guess this is for the strawberries and blueberries, but I can think of another use.”
By now they were walking back toward the house, the denim of Lance’s jeans rubbing uncomfortably against his erection. Lance pulled Jasper up short at the deck steps. “Can I just say, before we go in, that you have some of the absolute best ideas?”
“I do believe,” Jasper said, “that you helped facilitate this adventure.” He leaned in to whisper in Lance’s ear. “Let me show you just how much I love you, Lance Black.”
They spent the rest of the beautiful spring afternoon wrapped up in each other, the sun setting as their simple picnic became a feast of the heart.
Photo-Love and Seven Ways to Get the Guy
R. W. Clinger
Getting the guy. Good luck with that. It’s not as easy at is seems.
Then again, maybe it is…
*
The number one way to get the guy: Jump when you are called on to jump. And jump high. Real high.
“Brody, I need you,” Roarke said, his voice wavering with nervousness.
It was nice to be needed by a man
. What gay guy didn’t want that? “Where and when?”
“247 Mossdale Street. Two o’clock this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there. Count on it.”
Before I ended our cell phone conversation, he hurriedly asked, “Do you have any lime green underwear?”
I chuckled, grinning from ear to ear. “I do.”
“Wear those this afternoon. Can you do that?”
I could and would, excited to see him again.
*
Springtime in the city. The time for lust, great sex, and love, if you’re lucky. A colorful period between men who find other men attractive on various levels: physically, mentally, socially, and emotionally. Love happens to the best of us, when we least expect it, of course. I’ve heard if you don’t look for it, it will happen within seconds, blowing you away. It happened to all my white collar friends: Ricky, James, Patrick, and Blaine. The winter thawed, the season changed, the sun came out to play, and men started to fall in love again, young and old. Even with me.
Love didn’t happen to me until Roarke came along. Roarke Stephen McDixon with his ginger hair, muscular frame, fall-into green eyes, and chest covered in curly fur. Six-three Roarke with his GQ smile and charm, model-perfect and with a modern haircut, and a tight bottom that could have rocked the world off its axis. I could ramble about Roarke for the next four thousand two hundred and ninety-three pages but won’t. Instead, I have some assistant work to accomplish, a “dog job,” as I used to call it. Listen…
*
I was spoiled at twenty-eight, living in Los Angeles. My company was called Best Assets, a qualified agency that supplied business executives with competent assistants, not temporary positions at low scale paying jobs. My clients were professional men and women who were usually college graduates and experienced regarding work among white collars in the world, plus they had exceptional drives.
My company matched employable people with appropriate executives, concentrating on both parties’ interests. For instance, Jude Barr was a curator at the Robindaux Gallery in West Hollywood. I paired him with Gregory Sander, a graduate from UCLA with a business degree and an interest / background in art. The pairing was just one success of many my staff and I had created. Best Assets processed approximately fourteen employees a week, matching those bright-eyed women and men to hardworking executives and established companies. All in all, my own company did well. I was living in a nice one-bedroom bungalow near Beverly Hills and wasn’t starving like some people in the world.
April of last year was a little rocky, though. Bea LeCarre, my vice president and right arm in the company, needed a week because her older sister passed away in a horrible boating accident somewhere in the South of France. And Michael Chentar, my glue and everything-guy at Best Assets, went missing the same week, lost in the jungles of South America with a male tour guide named Juan Cinco. I honestly think the guy was his boyfriend, but it wasn’t any of my business. Anyway, Michael and Bea were both out of the country and other staff members were doing their own jobs. I had some slack to pick up and…
Roarke McDixon rushed into my world, blowing me away. He entered my office unannounced and unscheduled. I usually didn’t concentrate on what men wore, the complete opposite of a fashion diva, but Roarke looked attractive in his tight pair of beige jeans, burgundy Italian loafers, and white cotton dress shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest and showed off ginger fur and solid pecs. Some of the material pulled away from one of his pecs when he leaned over my desk, exposing one pink nipple. His chest wasn’t bronze like most La Landers, but I knew that reds didn’t tan easily because of their Irish genes, not that I minded or judged.
“Brody Neilson?” he asked, eyeing me up and down, taking all of me in: brown hair, muscular build with no fat, bright blue eyes, clean-shaven, five-eleven frame, and no earrings or tattoos.
I usually didn’t have visitors, family, or clients in my office since it looked like a pigsty. Had Bea been working, Roarke never would have made it out of the foyer. “Yes, I’m Brody. Who are you?” I already knew who he was but wanted to humor him. Who didn’t know Roarke McDixon and his bathroom photographs? He wasn’t world-famous, but he was quite popular along California’s coast.
“Roarke McDixon.” He said his name, holding out his right hand for a shake. Then he told me what he did for a living.
What a weird name: Roarke McDixon. Strange. But I liked it. Hell, he could have been named Merlin Mudd for I all cared, into his red hair, freckles, and Popeye muscles. Damn, the guy was fucking hot, unbearable to look at.
*
Number two: Know what the guy does, if you give a shit, of course.
Truth told, I was very familiar with Roarke’s professional photographs of bathrooms. His work could be found in Architectural Digest, Town and Country, and in a heavily priced coffee table book titled Bathroom Beauties, which was oversized, comprised of two hundred and thirty colored plates of exquisite restrooms in Key West, New York City, Saddle Ridge, Malibu, and Houston. Roarke was not an amateur by any means and had made well over three hundred thousand dollars a year from his photography.
Some viewers didn’t know about his edgier work in back alley basement bathrooms, subway latrines, public urinals in seedy bars. He was selective, of course, and good at what he did. A prodigy with his camera and subjects. For every high-end bathroom photograph he had been paid for, Roarke had twenty crud-infested ones that could have been considered disgusting but quite artsy, challenging to one’s mind, and gasp-taking.
We had a drink together in my office because I needed one: whiskey sours. Then he told me he wanted an assistant with a background in photography. “My current assistant, Marcus Shore, decided to fall in love with a Saudi. Marcus moved to the Middle East. The two men look adorable together and will make the perfect couple, but their arrangement isn’t going to help my career.”
I wanted to tell him that I too was in a bind because Bea and Michael were not in the country, able to help me. Bad business entailed offering secrets of the trade, which I didn’t want to share at the moment. Therefore, I kept my trap shut about my company’s lack of help and asked, “How soon do you need an assistant?”
“Preferably tomorrow morning. I have a shoot to attend at a nearby mansion that overlooks the Pacific. Can you help me out?”
I couldn’t help him out, but he didn’t need to know that. But I would never turn down business and cash in my pocket, particularly from such a handsome and rock-solid red. “I can help you,” I said, deciding to execute the job and position myself, since no one on my staff was currently available.
“Make sure the person has a background in photography, Brody. I want tomorrow to go smooth.”
“Of course. And of course.”
He winked at me, which melted my world and maybe caused me to fall for him on the spot. I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but something strange rocked within my chest. And my blood pressure rose as my eyes met his, sealing together. Silence hung between us like an unresolved mystery until he finally reached for my hand, shook it, and clarified the address of tomorrow’s bathroom shoot.
When Roarke left my office, he shifted his bulbous ass to the right and left, but not on purpose. Frankly, it was an ass I wanted to hold with both hands, rolling my palms against. And it was an ass that caused my dick to bounce with life, becoming semi-hard as he was leaving.
Over his left shoulder, he called, “Tomorrow morning. Ten.”
I repeated what he had said and added, “I’ll be there. No need to worry.”
*
Number three: Know the guy’s issues, whether they are big or small.
There was one Herculean-sized problem about working for Roarke McDixon. I didn’t know jack about photography. Of course, I was a member of Instagram and Pinterest, but those photographs had been stolen from the Internet. The only picture I had ever taken that could have been considered worthy was of Bea and Michael standing in my office, grinning and p
osing. The photograph looked cheesy and ridiculous as they shared a bogus hug, and lacked any sense of professionalism and art about it. In fact, it was somewhat blurred. The worst of the worst pictures ever taken by any man.
I hadn’t slept at all the night before the bathroom shoot. Getting Roarke out of my head was next to impossible, I was so caught up in his handsomeness and charm. All I could recall throughout the night was his wink, maybe wooing me the way one man deserves to be wooed by another man, even a stranger.
My Roarke-invaded insomnia didn’t stop there, though. Not in the least. I imagined him entering my bedroom in a pair of tight white briefs and nothing more, exposing his muscled and hairy chest. He leaned into my bedroom’s door frame, tilted his head to the right, sort of chuckled, and said, “You don’t know a damn thing about photography, do you, Brody?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“More than obvious. Not that it matters, though, since you’re a fine-looking man. Plus you have some substance, which I like.”
“What kind of substance?” I tested him, seeing if he had learned me as much as I had learned him.
“You like cats over dogs, you’re obsessed with lottery tickets, and you enjoy the rain over sun.”
“Nicely done,” I said.
“And something tells me you like the company of men over women,” he said, grabbing the junk between his legs and giving it a tug. “Plus you fall in love rather quickly.”
“I can’t deny any of those facts.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
I was rolled over in the dream, facedown on my bed, and my underwear pulled away and off. Before I knew what was happening, Roarke had his nose and mouth against my bottom. His fingers and palms separated my behind and he darted his tongue inside me, pulled away, and darted inside again, teasing me. He growled behind me, hungry, and became relentless, continuing to pleasure me. When he eventually pulled his face away from my rear, he rolled two fingertips down and over my opening, growled again, and spanked one of my ass cheeks.
Men in Love: M/M Romance Page 12